She wrote about picking up extra shifts whenever she could, and how she had put aside whatever little she had for my future. The savings book told the rest of the story: tiny deposits, sometimes just a few dollars, made month after month for over a decade. At the bank, the teller confirmed she had never stopped saving for me—not once.
Standing there, I broke down. All those years, I had mistaken wealth for love. Yet the person with the least to give had given me the most—quietly, patiently, stitch by stitch and dollar by dollar.
I had chosen comfort, but she had chosen me. Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered.
Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
